


Falling is Like This

by fictionalaspect



Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe -Work, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-12
Updated: 2010-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, Brendon Urie is madly in love with a boy from the candy shop. <i>The</i> boy from the candy shop. There's only one.</p><p>"I bet he's sweet," Pete cracks, and Brendon rolls his eyes and groans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling is Like This

The thing about cliches is that sometimes--every once and a while--they happen.

And when they happen it's usually not with sparkling lights and a big brass band; you're just sliding along, thinking about this or that, your grocery list and which bills you forgot to pay and then suddenly you're madly, totally, utterly in love. The drop everything kind of love, the kind of love where your heart is on your fucking sleeve and you don't even care, because it's _there_ and it's real and everything is fucking golden and your life will never be the same again.

They're sort of inconvenient like that.

\--

So, Brendon Urie is madly in love with a boy from the candy shop. _The_ boy from the candy shop. There's only one.

"I bet he's sweet," Pete cracks, and Brendon rolls his eyes and groans.

\--

The candy shop is six blocks away from the store Brendon is nominally employed in, Pete's store, his erstwhile mecca for overindulgent hipsters with too much spare cash. It's a music-and-books-and-art-installation-and-gallery-and-clothing shop. Brendon runs the tea counter in the back, serving up caramel machiattos and green tea lattes with a side of blinding smile. It's a decent job; Brendon makes his own hours, and Pete turns a blind eye to any CD sales that go on behind the counter. Brendon's picked up a lot of fans that way.

Anyway, the boy.

(When Brendon tells this story to Pete--who then tells it to everyone in the shop--it grows a little in the retelling, until Brendon was going on a _quest_ to find his _true love_ before he dies of leukemia or something.

Brendon, as far as he knows, isn't dying of leukemia.

This is how it really happened.)

On Thursday, Brendon Urie left work on his lunch break to pick up rolls of quarters from the bank for his register. The bank is seven blocks away from Pete's shop; three blocks down Henderson, a left onto the Boulevard, and then three more blocks down Martine until you see it on the corner. One block before the bank is the candy shop. Brendon had always been aware that it existed, but if you had asked him before Thursday, he would have been utterly unable to tell you its name. It had always just been sort of there in the background, an orange eyesore, a favorite security blanket for the south-central area of downtown. There's something about having a neighborhood candy shop that convinces people that everything will be fundamentally okay in the end.

So Brendon was walking by the candy shop and in the window, there was a large tub of those gummy Japanese peach candies, the kind that are almost impossible to find. Brendon stopped and pressed his nose to the glass, and once he had satisfied himself that yes, indeed, those were the delicious peach candies of his childhood dreams, he decided to make a detour.

("Seriously, Pete, shut up, they're really hard to find.")

"Whatever you say, kiddo."

"Bite me.")

On the inside, the candy store was a long, low rectangle, stretching back from the tiny storefront like a sugar-coated hallway of awesome. Brendon remembered thinking that exact phrase--"sugar-coated hallway of awesome"--right as he realized that not only did the candy shop have peach gummy candy, they had kiwi and passion-fruit and even those little hamburger things were you can assemble your own miniature hamburger out of gummy parts, all for $5.00 a pound.

He grabbed a bag and started filling, thinking all the while of nothing more interesting than the fact that very soon, he was going to be slightly poorer and infinitely happier. He had no idea how he hadn't noticed this place before. Fuck yeah, candy shop.

Brendon selected his victims; he tied the bag up with the helpfully provided string, weighed it, and walked back towards the end of the shop. Sitting behind the shop counter was the prettiest boy he'd ever seen, wrapped up in a scarf and reading a thick novel and utterly unaware of Brendon's existence.

This is where the story gets interesting.

("Pete. It's not interesting. It's fucking lame. I am the lamest dude ever, and you mock my pain."

"I'm not mocking! I'm _helping_.")

It should also be noted here that Brendon Urie is not in the habit of calling dudes "pretty." Brendon will readily admit that if there is a particular dude he finds attractive, "pretty" is not usually on his list of helpfully descriptive adjectives. "Hot," is a popular one, along with "Hey, let's fuck," which he's never actually managed to use. Also, Brendon may have failed grammar in school, but who's counting?

The point is, Candy Shop boy was pretty. He was so pretty Brendon managed to drop his bag on the floor before his brain had properly reconnected to all of his limbs. The boy looked up at the sound of the crash, and Brendon fumbled for something to say that would showcase his obvious wit and charm.

"Hi?" the boy said hesitantly. "Did you--want those?"

"Sure," Brendon said. "Yes. Okay."

The boy looked down at his book, and then back up at Brendon, as though he was weighing the possible entertainment values of each and finding Brendon distinctly lacking. He placed the book aside, marking his page with a post-it note. Brendon handed him the bag, which the boy placed on the scale. He then proceeded to untie the string Brendon had carefully knotted around the top of the bag.

"Oh, shit," Brendon said. "Was I, um. Was I not supposed to do that?"

"No, you were," the boy said, looking up in surprise. "I just have to check. Sometimes people try to smuggle the nicer stuff out inside the bags."

"Candy thieves," Brendon said. "It's a hard-knock life."

"Mmm," the boy said. He peered into Brendon bag and then, for no apparent reason, he smiled. He looked up at Brendon, still grinning, and Brendon felt his heart stop a little in his chest. Bad sign.

"You match the peach ones," the boy said, and Brendon frowned, lost in the conversational whiplash.

"What?" Brendon said.

"You're," the boy said, and then motioned towards Brendon's sleeve. Brendon looked down and yes, he confirmed that he was indeed wearing the hot pink girl's hoodie he'd stolen from the lost and found at work.

Oh. Right.

"Uh," Brendon said, and wondered how on earth he could possibly talk his way out of this one.

"I like it," the boy said, very seriously, as he retied Brendon's bag with long, nimble fingers. "Pink is a seriously underutilized color."

"Thanks," Brendon said, and the boy smiled again, sweet and small, like he wasn't quite used to it.

And that--as they say--was pretty much that.

\--

"How do you manage to do that?" Brendon says, groaning into his double-shot espresso. "Every fucking time, Pete. It's not even that great of a story, and somehow you manage to make it all--"

"Exciting?" Pete says mildly. He was sitting on the edge of Brendon's coffee counter, kicking his sneakers against the tile. "Look, you fell in love, dude. Use some artistic license."

"I think it sounds kind of exciting," Jon put in, from somewhere below Brendon's knees. He was currently organizing all of the bags of coffee so that they would stop falling out onto Brendon's shoes every time he slid open the storage case. "It's a good story."

"I walked in because I wanted a sugar fix, dropped my bag, made some stupid comments and realized I was dressed like a pre-teen," Brendon says. "That's not a good story."

"Yeah, but he smiled at you," Pete says. "Twice. Unless you were lying about that part."

"I wasn't lying," Brendon says. "I don't think I was lying. Ugh. I don't know."

"I see a trip to the candy store is in my future," Pete muses. "We'll do a comparative study. Candy Boy Smiles: Is it Just You?"

"That sounds like child porn," Jon replies, his voice muffled by the storage case. "Don't say that to him, Pete. That's really creepy."

"Duh," Pete says. "I wasn't going to tell him about it."

"That's not--okay," Brendon says into his coffee. "You know what, sure. Do your thing, Pete. Just try not to get arrested, and don't mention my name."

"Does he even know your name?" Pete asks.

"No," Brendon says. "But that's not the point, okay?"

Jon's voice floats up from the floor. "Bden, we need to work on your seduction skills."

"Tell me about it," Brendon says sadly.

\--

Candy Shop Boy's name is Ryan. Specifically, his name is George Ryan Ross, but--according to Pete--he prefers Ryan.

"Do I want to ask how you know?" Brendon says, while he's fighting with the espresso machine. "I don't, do I?"

"Hey, hey, I'm your good-luck relationship fairy," Pete says. "Show some respect, dude. I went out on a limb for you."

"By which you mean, you chatted him up," Brendon says.

"I chatted him up," Pete says. "You're right, he's pretty adorable. You're lucky I'm taken. I like a man in a nice hat."

"You have a man in a hat," Brendon points out. "He's in your office, swearing at your printer."

"You'd think he'd be able to make it work," Pete muses. "It's like, guitar out of tune? No problem! Keyboard not working? Super easy! Printer jammed up? Asking for the moon, dude."

Brendon doesn't point out that Pete could probably attempt to fix his own printer once and a while. At this point, it's a lost cause.

"Fine, I'll bite," Brendon says eventually, after he's served up three more drinks and Pete is just sort of hovering around, ostensibly doing a floor-check but mostly just waiting for Brendon's curiosity to overcome his moral opposition to Pete's methods. "Anything I should know? What are the secrets to the universe of George Ryan Ross?"

"He likes flowers and long walks on the beach," Pete says, and grins when Brendon rolls his eyes. "No, seriously, he's a nice guy. He's pretty shy. He really likes the Beatles, though, sixties stuff, like the Kinks. And he likes to read."

"Awesome," Brendon says. "So we have absolutely nothing in common."

"I wouldn't say _nothing_," Pete hedges. "You both like candy, right?"

\--

 

Brendon tells himself it's not stalking if he actually eats the candy he buys every week, like clockwork.

At least Ryan knows his name.

\--

The thing is, Ryan's not just pretty. He's _smart_. He's the kind of smart that when Brendon asks him a question about what he's reading, he quickly gets lost in the answer.

It's not that Brendon doesn't get it, it's more that he usually hasn't read the book in question, so Ryan's description of Catherine's conflicted motives or the parallel plot structure goes exactly nowhere in his head. It's worth it to see Ryan light up, though. He talks in a clear, low voice, sometimes trailing off when he's considering a particular word or phrase. When he gets really excited--which is rare--he uses his hands.

"You should just ask him if he wants to get coffee," Jon opines from across the store. "Better yet. _Bring_ him coffee."

"But what would we talk about?" Brendon says sadly. "Seriously, dude, I'm not on his level. I'd just stare at him like an idiot and nod a lot."

"Sometimes that works," Jon says sagely. "Look at me and Cass. She's way smart."

"Yeah, but you get high and watch cartoons together," Brendon points out. "It's not quite the same."

"So bring him coffee and weed," Jon says. "Dude. Actually. That's kind of the best thing ever. When you get the munchies you'll be _in a candy shop_." Spencer snorts as he walks by, lugging a gigantic plastic crate of records.

"Hey stockboy, how's the back room coming?" Jon calls out, and Spencer rests the crate on the floor for a few seconds just so he can give Jon the finger. "I'm your boss," Spencer points out. "I'm also the only person I trust to be sober in this store on any given day, which is why you're not shelving, you pothead."

"Hey," Brendon says, mildly affronted. "I'm always sober. Usually."

"You run the coffee shop," Spencer says kindly. "But I'll trade you for Jon, if you like."

"Hey!" Jon says, from behind them, and Brendon grins at Spencer. He's a nice dude; he takes his job seriously, and he's half the reason the story makes any money in the first place. Brendon knows for a fact that without Patrick and Spencer, the store would flounder within a week. Pete has great ideas, but he's not so hot on the follow-through.

"Oh, Spencer, did you hear about Brendon's epic--"

"Jooon," Brendon groans. "Give it a rest, okay? I'm sure he's heard. I'm sure everyone in a three-block radius has heard how lame I am."

"Unpaid parking ticket summons?" Spencer says sympathetically. "I always knew you were trouble."

"What--No, fuck you, I don't even have a car," Brendon says. "No, I just. Have a crush on someone epically out of my league, that's all."

"Oh?" Spencer says. He sets his crate down again. "How so?"

"Ugh," Brendon says, because apparently he is a sucker for punishment who is going to rehash this at the first sign of any sympathetic interest. "He's just. He's awesome and smart and interesting and we have literally nothing in common and I don't even care, which is bad, right? That's bad."

"Ouch," Spencer says. "Where did you meet this guy?"

"Oh, you know," Brendon says, waving his hand. "Around." If Spencer hasn't heard about Brendon's ridiculous candy habit yet, Brendon's not going to tell him.

"Huh," Spencer says, and then shrugs. "I don't know, dude. Have you tried wooing him with your mad musical skills?"

"That only works in movies," Brendon says. "I'm not John Cusack. What am I going to do, invite him out to see me busking?"

"At least it will be a cheap date," Spencer says. "Maybe you'll get lucky."

"Lucky, as in, get laid?" Brendon says. "Or lucky, as in, make enough money to afford dinner? Because I don't see either of those happening, dude."

"Stranger things," Spencer calls over his shoulder as he walks toward the back room.

\--

Fridays are Busking Days. Pete's shop doesn't get busy until the evening, and people tend to give Brendon more money on Fridays, when their wallets are fat and happy from the week's wages. Brendon lugs out his tiny portable amp and sets up in the Metro station between Hastings and 2nd Street, armed with coffee and an empty guitar case. His voice has a pleasing echo in the subway tunnel.

He plays covers, mostly, throwing in a few of his own songs for variety every time he starts to get bored. A family with small children sit and listen to him play for a while. The kids dance around in their tiny coats and hats, and Brendon obliges them by digging up some kid-friendly songs and editing out all the bad words. The mom has dark hair and a wide, pleased smile. She gives him ten bucks when they finally get on their train, and thanks him for the entertainment.

Traffic slows down a little in the late afternoon, and then picks up again around four, as people start to stream out of their office buildings and head back to the suburbs. The platforms are crowded by the time Brendon catches sight of Spencer, all the way at the other end of the platform. Spencer jumps in place and waves his hand above the crowd, and Brendon laughs and then tells the subway station at large that the next song is for Spencer Smith. He proceeds to play a rousing rendition of "Baby, One More Time," and Brendon can hear Spencer's high, braying laugh even through the amused murmurs of the crowd.

Spencer finally pushes his way through just as the next train arrives; he claps Brendon on the shoulder and fondly calls him an asshole. He's pushed along with the crowd before Brendon has time to reply, so he just gives Spencer a cheesy thumbs-up through the window.

\--

Brendon doesn't notice the handful of gummy candies in his guitar case until he's packing up to leave for the shop.

They're individually wrapped, so he figures they're safe to eat.

It's a pretty awesome end to his day.

\--

Friday nights are always busy. They get a steady stream of high school kids, fresh from a week of forced social interaction, clustering in groups for maximum impact. Pete always complains about the weekends, mutters injured comments about Hot Topic puking up in his store, but Brendon knows he has a soft-spot a mile wide for all of them.

Friday nights are always when Spencer plays the best music, rolling out the tracks that these kids have never heard before. Brendon bops along to the beat while he makes endless orders of fancy coffee drinks. His glasses steam up when he gets too close to the milk frothier.

They're open until midnight, but the store starts to empty out around 10:30, as curfews call out their siren songs. Brendon leans up against his counter and cracks his knuckles. One, two, three--the last one won't crack. It's bugging him.

"You're going to break something," Spencer says. "That's so bad for your fingers, dude." Brendon spreads his fingers out and waves them gaily at Spencer. "My hands are magical, Spencer Smith," Brendon says. "Didn't you know?"

"I do now," Spencer says dryly.

The doorbell meows.

("Pete, seriously, a cat doorbell? It's terrifying. I feel like I'm about to walk into a low-budget haunted house."

"Jingling is old-school, Trick! Live in the future!")

Spencer turns around and greets someone, a wide smile on his face. Brendon's not paying attention; he's trying to get the last traces of sludgey, dried milk-and-espresso-and-cream-fuck-knows-what-else out of the drip tray.

He looks up to see Spencer hugging Ryan. _Ryan_. Candy-Store-Boy-Ryan.

Brendon thinks, "Hnnngh?"

They're standing by the register in the front. Spencer's laughing a little, reaching out to poke Ryan's hat, and Ryan bats his hand away. They're easy with each other. Relaxed.

Brendon considers very seriously the merits of hiding in the back room before this is all over. There are so many ways for this to end in utter humiliation. Behind Ryan, where Ryan can't see, Jon is giving him a smile and encouraging eyebrows.

"Oh, hey," Spencer says, and pulls on Ryan's arm a little. "Come meet Brendon. I know I said I'd introduce you." Brendon's trapped. There's no way he can get out of here before someone notices.

Ryan stops short when gets to the counter, his eyes widening. "Hi," he says, and tilts his head. "I didn't know you worked here."

"I, yes?" Brendon says. "Hi Ryan."

"Wait, you two know each other?" Spencer says. He frowns a little.

"Brendon comes into the shop sometimes," Ryan says. "We talk about books. But I--I didn't know you played guitar."

"Yes," Brendon says again. He feels like he's only getting one half of the conversation. "I do play guitar. But how did you know that?"

"Oh, Ryan heard you on the subway," Spencer says. "He wanted to meet you. He didn't shut up for like, three blocks."

"_Spencer_," Ryan hisses. He turns back to Brendon. "It was really good." he says earnestly. "But I didn't realize--Hi."

"Hi," Brendon says again. He thinks about the taste of peach gummy candy in his mouth earlier that afternoon, and everything suddenly connects.

He bursts out laughing.

"Wait, wait," Brendon says. "Wait. You didn't realize that was me? Do you often give candy to strangers?"

Ryan shrugs. "Sometimes," he says. He smiles a little.

"I have to go--do something," Spencer says. It's about as subtle as a brick. Brendon doesn't even care. "I'll be right back."

"Mmm," Ryan says, and waves a hand in Spencer's direction. He arranges his long limbs on one of the counter stools. "So. You make tea?"

"I make tea," Brendon agrees. "And delicious coffee drinks. Would you like a delicious coffee drink?"

"I can't--no thank you," Ryan says politely. "It's, uh. Rent's due tomorrow."

"On the house," Brendon says quickly. "Whatever you want, really. It's no problem."

"Are you sure?" Ryan says, and looks down both sides of the counter, as though to ensure that Brendon's not busy. "I mean."

"Consider it a fair trade," Brendon says, and ducks down below the counter to search out his favorite mug. When he pops back up, Ryan's staring at him with a slightly bemused expression. "Oh, no," Ryan says. "That was for the music."

"Right," Brendon says. There's a warm, sloshy feeling somewhere in his chest. He doesn't even care that the entire store is probably watching their awkward mating dance. "So. Thoughts? Choices? Allergies?"

"Surprise me," Ryan says. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a dog-eared paperback, but he leaves it on the counter, like a security blanket. He looks around for a minute or two--presumably for Spencer--and then he reaches up and carefully unwinds his scarf. He folds it up and places it on top of his book, and then takes off his hat as well. Underneath his hat, his hair is longer than Brendon expected, curling around his face. Ryan tucks a stray piece behind his ear and Brendon tries to focus on the steaming milk in his hand so as to avoid any burn-related mishaps.

He makes Ryan a peppermint latte, because it seems like the right thing to do. They're sweet, but not overly so, because Brendon uses really dark espresso and semi-sweet chocolate and then cuts it with sweetened cream and crushed peppermint sticks. It's one of the ones he came up with last winter, when he was both broke and bored out of his mind.

He thinks about it for a moment and then carefully, very carefully, sticks a Hersey's kiss in the bottom of the cup before he pours everything in. It's super A+ fucking lame, but whatever.

He sets down the mug in front of Ryan and he's just opening his mouth to say something really stupid, like _Will you go out to dinner with me?_ when all the lights go out.

Brendon blinks in the darkness. From behind him, he hears a crash, and then a muffled thump, followed by a flashlight clicking on. Brendon fumbles under the counter and comes up with the tiny blowtorch he uses for crusting creme brulee, when they have it. He clicks it on, and peers out into the darkness. It looks like the entire neighborhood has lost power.

"Huh," Brendon says. It's not raining, or snowing, or anything like that. Must be the power company. Again.

"Woo, blackout party!" Pete cries out. "Lock the doors, motherfuckers!"

\--

They set up all their various portable light sources in the center of the reading nook, along with a few candles Pete scrounged from god-knows-where. There's a few customers in the store, looking mildly confused, but Pete just invites them into the circle. "Come on, stay and hang out," Pete says. Most of them do.

"How long does this usually last?" one of them asks, and Pete shrugs. "An hour or two," he says. "Happens every once in a while. There's something wrong with the circuit breaker for our block. They'll get someone out here to fix it soon enough."

Brendon sits down on one of the large, over-sized cushions and says preemptively, "I'm veto-ing Truth or Dare."

"You're no fun," Pete says, but he gives in easily. "I was thinking we could rock out," he says. "Brendon, you brought your guitar, right? And we've got Patrick here, and Jon."

"I think there's beer in the fridge," Spencer says, and looks mildly affronted when Jon calls him a hypocrite. "What?" Spencer says. "I was just keeping it cold until I got home, that's all."

"Looks like we'd better drink it," Jon says sagely. "For the good of the beer, and all that."

Brendon takes a flashlight and fumbles around in the back room until he finds his guitar, and takes the beer Spencer hands him when he gets back to the circle. Ryan is sitting next to him in a chair, and Brendon leans back against the chair legs. The side of Brendon's head brushes Ryan's pant leg and Brendon tries not to think about it, tries not to mentally count the atoms separating their respective skins.

"Requests?" Brendon says, as he's tuning the strings a little, and Ryan says quietly, "Can you play that song from earlier?"

"The one for Spencer?" Brendon says, and strums the opening bars of "Baby, One More Time." Ryan laughs, low and soft, and says "No, the one you played before that. I liked that one."

"Oh," Brendon says. "Oh, sure." It's one of his newer songs; he's still futzing with it, trying to make it sound just right. He taps the beat out on his fret and then launches into the opening melody; he's trying something new, attempting to work finger-picking into his repertoire, and it requires all of his concentration to stay on tempo.

When he's done, everyone claps and cheers, and Brendon takes a long, triumphant slug of his beer. The faces of his friends are reflected in the flickering light, smiling back at him. It makes him feel warm inside.

He plays a few more songs and then hands the guitar off to Jon, who launches immediately into Norwegian Wood. Spencer keeps time on the polished wood of the floor, adding in his own percussive touches when he feels it necessary. Brendon leans back against the chair and closes his eyes. He's pretty lost in the music when he feels a light pressure on his shoulder.

It feels like soft fingertips, and Brendon holds his breath and stays very, very still. The fingertips travel up to his neck, a gentle stroking pressure, asking nothing and demanding nothing in return. Brendon bites his lip and turns his head slightly, peering up above him at Ryan.

Ryan tilts his head a little, a silent question in the half-light. Brendon leans a little into his touch, and gets a gentle squeeze in return.

Across the room, Patrick breaks into the first verse of "Womanizer." Ryan shifts a little, so Brendon's leaning up against his knee.

"You don't really like candy that much, do you?" Ryan says softly. There's a smile in his voice.

"I actually do," Brendon says. "But. Yeah. Not quite that much."

Ryan leans down, and sets his half-empty coffee mug on the floor. "I don't like coffee," he says quietly, but he's smiling.

"Oh," Brendon says. Ryan's fingers are still light, dancing over the delicate skin at the back of his neck. "Is this going to work?" Brendon says, because it's the the one thing in the forefront of his mind, overshadowing even the happy tumbling in his stomach. He feels like he needs to just throw it out there. "You and me, I mean, we're so--"

"Only one way to find out," Ryan says, and Brendon thinks _fuck it_, and leans back into Ryan's touch. He can't keep the stupid grin off his face.

Around them, in the candlelight, life moves on. 


End file.
